


et tu, brute?

by cumulo_nimbus



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: BDSM themes, Brief Sadomasochism, Cock Rings, Crying During Sex, Degradation, Homophobic Language, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Ronan just wants to get his dick whet but he can't stop thinking about Proko being a dreamthing, Spitroasting, dreamer sandwich with Proko in the middle, dubious mortality concerning fucking a dreamthing of your own creation, horny boys being horny in an unspecified house, offt that's a lot of serious tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulo_nimbus/pseuds/cumulo_nimbus
Summary: Ronan doesn't quite understand Kavinsky and Prokopenko's relationship - that of dreamer and dreamthing - but that doesn't stop him from being indulging in their desire.





	et tu, brute?

**Author's Note:**

> y’all have no idea the self-control it takes to not make Kavinsky call Ronan a tart. you have no fucking clue

Kavinsky lounges back in the armchair, all plush fabric and sallow skin. His singlet catches as he shifts, bunching about his ribcage and bearing slivers of his stomach. The movement dislodges the gaudy gold chain around his neck, and Ronan knows Kavinsky should look awful, offensive to the eyes, even, with his stupid sunglasses pushed to the crown of his head and his pupils cocaine-blown. It’s too attractive. He and Prokopenko have both been caught by the motion, eyes drawn inevitably back to Kavinsky, though Ronan isn’t about to let Kavinsky know that.

He turns back to Prokopenko, bearing down. He’s got one hand planted on the mattress next to them, and the other buried in Prokopenko’s hair as he leans back in, lips ghosting over Prokopenko’s before Ronan pulls his head back and heaps kisses and nips down his neck, affectionate in a way he’d never deign to treat Kavinsky. Prokopenko’s mewling like a virgin above him, but the way his hips roll with dirty ease to Ronan’s speaks volumes. Prokopenko has been Kavinsky’s dog for as long as Kavinsky’s called him Gansey’s, though Prokopenko seems to lean into it, always a spectre to Kavinsky’s chaos.

Prokopenko is Ronan’s for the night, though, his red-bitten mouth, splayed legs, and flushed chest. Ronan had figured that Prokopenko’s loyalty would’ve pulled him into Kavinsky’s arms after the first few moments, but Prokopenko seems to enjoy putting on the show. Ronan has no doubt that they’re feeding the worst parts of Kavinsky’s ego and perverted sexual fantasies together like this, but he stopped caring a few hours ago – and that was before the dream-beer pong.

The room is lit only by a stark splinter of light from the door, still ajar from when they’d thrown it open as they stumbled in. The sounds of the party below them diffract through the opening, low and nonsensical. Prokopenko hums along to a rhythm that Ronan can’t hear, but dreamthings are each in a league of their own, so he just continues downwards, pushing Prokopenko’s shirt lower and lower until he abandons it completely, slipping his hands between the fabric and Prokopenko’s hot skin and pulling it off of him. Kavinsky’s claims litter the hidden skin of Prokopenko’s torso; bruises in the shape of his teeth and scratch lines of bruises all coalescing at the waistband of Prokopenko’s low-riding jeans. Prokopenko’s eyes burn into him as Ronan apprises the marks, watching for his reaction. The gaze flits off of him after a moment, apparently not unpleased with what he found. He’s hard in his jeans – they all are by now, Ronan thinks.

The pecks turn to scrapes of his teeth as Ronan gentles Prokopenko back to lie against the pillows stacked behind him. Kavinsky huffs something amused from behind Ronan, but it’s lost on someone as far removed from their dynamics as Ronan. Similarly, he doesn’t see Prokopenko give Kavinsky the finger behind him, though he hears Kavinsky give a snort, and then the distinctive sound of a zipper; loud and slow and deliberate in the dreamlike suspension of the room. Then, Kavinsky’s voice, grating as always, splits apart the silence as he gives a groan, though neither Ronan nor Prokopenko can see him.

Prokopenko shifts below him, head lolling to try and see Kavinsky. Ronan isn’t going to let Kavinsky have all of his perversions that easily, dropping his head to meet Prokopenko in a kiss before he can glance over to Kavinsky. Prokopenko’s lips are already tacky from making out, but they’re indecently soft and full, and Ronan is reminded of how little he knows of this Prokopenko’s creation; how almost all of the details of this Prokopenko’s beginning remain simply unknowable to him. Did Kavinsky know he was making a Prokopenko who groaned like he was dying when Ronan sucked hickeys into his neck? Did Kavinsky intend to make a Prokopenko who shook like a leaf when Ronan rubbed over his cock, hard and straining against his pants? Did Kavinsky mean to create a Prokopenko who would lead Ronan away to a darkened room after only a suggestive sip from the straw in his cocktail?

Neither Kavinsky nor Prokopenko seem to care about these details, both too busy indulging in all the bodily pleasures offered to the disgustingly rich and magical. Ronan doesn’t even know the last time that either of them was completely sober; doesn’t think that they do either.

Prokopenko’s reaches to undo his pants in Ronan’s absence, giving the fabric an aborted shove down his thin hips before guiding Ronan’s hands to help him. Ronan looks up to him, unimpressed, but Prokopenko’s eyes are low-lidded and petulant, and he simply waits.

A moment passes, and then, “Hurry the fuck up,” Kavinsky drawls out, long and exasperated from behind them. “You’re like a pair of fucking old women over there. If I’d wanted to be bored with my dick out, I would’ve fucked one of the townies instead,” he complains, as empirical in the face of denial as Ronan has always known him to be.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ronan replies says, mostly out of habit. “Go downstairs if you want some action; we’re busy,” he muffles into Prokopenko’s collarbone, inching his pants lower as he goes. They slide off of Prokopenko after a moment, and he pauses to pull off his own shirt.

“Fucking frigid bitch,” Kavinsky sighs from behind them, not sounding really all that annoyed with his hand wrapped around his cock. He watches Ronan and Prokopenko from across the room – Ronan’s pale skin eaten away by the ink of his tattoo and the dark wash of his jeans. Then, Prokopenko’s bird-boned arms reaching around to link around Ronan’s neck, holding tight before breaking to scratch across the tattoo, but what Ronan does to warrant this is obscured by his body. “Can you move so I can actually fucking see something apart from your gay ass tattoo?”

Ronan breaks away from Prokopenko’s lips (softer than they look) to see Prokopenko smiling impishly up at him, “How the fuck do you put up with his shit every day?” He asks, quiet like he means to say it in confidence, but they all know Kavinsky can hear him.

Prokopenko sighs below him, “You have no idea what it’s like to be fucked by K while on dream-shit, so I’m not even going to try,” though he’s still smiling as he says it. He speaks with the humour of knowing that he would never deny Kavinsky anything, but still enjoys seeing Ronan and Kavinsky squabble.

“Of fucking course,” Ronan replies, though the novelty of being hard with Prokopenko beneath him is starting to wear, and as they break apart he straightens to look at Kavinsky over his shoulder. “Anyway, you have some weird dream-lube or something, right?”

It’s an effort to not trail off as he speaks – Kavinsky is slumped even further across the lounge chair, a leg thrown over one of the arms with his head lolled back, jacking off leisurely. His eyes drop to Ronan across the room, and he gives a half-hearted leer. “I thought I was being a nuisance, Lynch, figured I’d just leave you two cocksuckers to it,” he says, eyelids drooping before they close completely, blocking out Ronan’s scowl. He sighs as his hips cant upwards into his fist, luxuriating in Ronan’s palatable annoyance.

A flush starts to crawl up Kavinsky’s cheeks as he strokes over his dick, other hand anchored in the delicate skin of his stomach, scratching raised lines across. His breath catches as his nails dig into his side, hips stuttering as he rubs over the head of his cock, and Ronan can’t help but think of all of their back alley brawls, how Kavinsky had always grinned up at him from the ground, blood running in rivets down his face. It’s still Kavinsky’s patent brand of awful, but it feels worse because Ronan gets off on it too.

“Joey, come over here,” whines Prokopenko from behind him, and Ronan doesn’t even let himself think about ‘Joey’, just looks back to where Prokopenko is propped up on his elbows, the most theatrical pout on his face. It works though, inexplicably, with his mussed hair and deep-set eyes, and the shine of his lips and the way he’s cupping his cock in his briefs only makes it worse.

Then, there’s the sound of movement behind him, and Kavinsky appears in Ronan’s vision, stalking up to where Prokopenko is lying. He props a knee up on the bed and leans over, supporting himself with an arm and holding Prokopenko’s face with the other. Ronan watches from between Prokopenko’s thighs as Kavinsky and Prokopenko kiss like they’re trying to win the Cutest Couple Award. It’s disconcerting to see Kavinsky do anything gently, though Ronan is drawn again into the issue of Prokopenko being Kavinsky’s own dreamthing, Kavinsky’s voice saying ‘My favourite forgery is Prokopenko’ still buzzing around in his head.

When he pulls himself out of it, his problem has resolved itself; Kavinsky and Prokopenko are making out like they’re trying to kill each other. Kavinsky’s sitting now, one hand still holding Prokopenko’s head, though the other is thumbing over one of Prokopenko’s nipples, and Ronan can see the way Prokopenko gasps into Kavinsky’s mouth before Kavinsky decides instead to pinch and pull at the sensitive skin, Prokopenko’s back bowing with a whine. Prokopenko has a hand twisted tightly in Kavinsky’s hair, and Ronan can see the muscles of his arm bunch as he pulls Kavinsky’s mouth off of his own to breathe.

Prokopenko’s other hand appears from behind Kavinsky and he throws, with little aim, a small bottle at Ronan. It hits his chest before falling to the bed, and as Ronan picks it up he can see a clear liquid inside of the unlabelled bottle. “Sneak,” Kavinsky curses Prokopenko, looking across to Ronan as he pulls Prokopenko’s briefs off.

He pours the lube over his right hand, ignoring Kavinsky’s stare, and lays his index finger against Prokopenko’s hole with no force, just making a space for himself there. Prokopenko’s head is resting in the crook of Kavinsky’s neck, pressing kisses against the tendons, but he breaks away to squirm downwards. “Ronan, please,” he says, finally making eye contact. His eyes are watery and he looks desperate from having been teased and neglected for so long. Ronan can’t look at him like that for much longer with how hard his own dick is, and he pushes in with his finger to Prokopenko’s halting sigh. He fits in easily enough, and just as he gets the length of his finger in, the pad of a second finger presses against Prokopenko’s rim. Prokopenko moans something affirmative, nodding his head dazedly, “Yes – yes, please, don’t make me wait anymore,” he hiccups.

“You’re gagging for it today, Proko,” Kavinsky says like he’s barely surprised, while Ronan pushes in with a second finger. Prokopenko doesn’t stop nodding, making little noises and sighs as Ronan fucks into him with his fingers. Kavinsky reaches into his back pocket, fiddling with something as he reaches down along Prokopenko’s body. “But you’re still going to have to wait,” he says, and Ronan watches as Prokopenko’s eyes open, confused, before Kavinsky slots a cock ring at the base of his dick.

Prokopenko’s reaction is quick, though he does little more than whine and claw at Kavinsky. “K – Please I can’t, I’m so hard it hurts I just want to cum please, K,” he babbles as Kavinsky begins stroking his cock, laughing as Prokopenko’s pleas devolve into moans and whimpers. “K, Joey, please I feel like I’m going to die – I need to cum,” he tries again, and Kavinsky’s laugh turns mean as he gives Prokopenko’s dick a final slow stroke upwards before releasing him. Prokopenko’s hips drop back to the bed, and he looks even closer to crying.

“Fucking noisy, too. Thought you were my slut, but you just can’t shut up when Lynch is finger fucking you, huh,” Kavinsky says, and it’s so rare that Kavinsky isn’t actively antagonising Ronan that his hand stills in Prokopenko for a moment, before Kavinsky gives him a dirty look and he adds another finger inside of Prokopenko in retaliation. Prokopenko wails with it, tears finally spilling over his cheeks, holding Kavinsky’s hip tightly while the other scrabbles for purchase in the sheets. His hands don’t even inch to touch himself as he strains against the mattress. “Come on, Proko, this is pathetic even for you,” Kavinsky says, hand returning to pinch and thumb over Prokopenko’s nipple. “I’ll shut you up, save some of that dignity of yours,” Kavinsky speaks as if he’s bestowing a gift, though Ronan can see him reaching for his cock again.

He shifts back to lay Prokopenko down on the mattress as he looks to Ronan. “Help me flip him,” Kavinsky says, and Ronan rolls his eyes, pulling his slick fingers from Prokopenko before they roll Prokopenko onto his front. His arms and legs shake as Ronan pulls him up onto all fours, left hand curled around Prokopenko’s hip to keep him upright as his right-hand returns to fingering him. Prokopenko moans like he’s dying, and Ronan can see Kavinsky looking down at Prokopenko as he pushes his cock into his mouth, cradling his jaw to hold his head up.

As soon as Kavinsky is holding Prokopenko up, Ronan reaches down to his own waistband to take out his cock. He pulls a condom from his pocket and rips it open with his teeth as he strokes his cock, nearly groaning but staying silent under Kavinsky’s heavy gaze. “Fucking bitch,” Kavinsky huffs, pulling Prokopenko’s head off of him before sinking in again. “You’ve been such a prude all year –” he pauses to moan obscenely, “– and you’re tearing open condoms with your fucking teeth you cunt,” he says, scowling.

Ronan can’t help but grin as he rolls the condom down his cock, pressing the head of his dick to Prokopenko’s ass and listening to Prokopenko’s muffled moan. “I’m only a prude for you,” he says, thrusting slowly at last into Prokopenko. He’s soft on the inside too, so hot and good after waiting for so long. Near immediately Ronan starts fucking into Prokopenko proper, thrusts that push Prokopenko down even harder onto Kavinsky’s cock.

Prokopenko nearly buckles at the sensation, finally having Ronan’s cock fucking him just how he needed as Kavinsky holds him down on his dick, throat convulsing around him. Each thrust has Ronan’s dick pressing against his prostate as he fucks into him, and it’s all he can do to not start crying again as his cock hangs below him, so hard and swollen that he starts to feel dizzy. Or the dizziness might be from the lack of air because Kavinsky’s cock occupies his throat and his nose is pushed into Kavinsky’s pelvis.

Kavinsky just holds Prokopenko’s head there as Ronan fucks him, feeling the vibrations of Prokopenko’s mouth around his dick as he moans. Once Ronan has a rhythm up, he begins to thrust in and out of Prokopenko’s mouth, shallow at first before his hips rock to match Ronan’s pace. Prokopenko’s abused lips sliding up and down his dick have never failed to get him off in the past, but watching Ronan impale Prokopenko onto his cock so hard that Prokopenko’s mouth slips further around his dick nearly has him cumming instantly.

Prokopenko is whining near constantly between them, so close to cumming but still being denied. Ronan can feel that he’s about to cum with Prokopenko clenching around him, so he reaches around to tug at Prokopenko’s cock, watching as Prokopenko begins shaking again, muscles twitching along his back as he tries to stay in control. He drops his hand lower, feels where Prokopenko’s rim stretches around his cock and strokes along his perineum, ghosts his hand along Prokopenko’s sack, and wriggles the cock ring off of him, letting it drop to the bed below. Prokopenko starts crying again when he feels Ronan stroking his cock, but he nearly sobs when Ronan pulls the cock ring off of him. Kavinsky’s cock muffles most of the noises, vibrations and his wet mouth driving Kavinsky close to orgasm as well. Prokopenko has tears rolling down his cheeks as he cums, letting out a long continuous moan as Ronan near pulls the orgasm from him.

He tightens around Ronan as he cums, and Ronan isn’t far behind, a bone-deep sigh leaving him as he cums. Kavinsky watches them each cum in turn and pulls out of Prokopenko’s mouth, jacking himself off before he cums too, all up along the side of Prokopenko’s face and into his hair.

Prokopenko slumps forward into Kavinsky’s belly, resting the clean side of his face against him as he catches his breath. Ronan, hazy fog clearing from his mind, can’t help but think about how long it must’ve been that Prokopenko went without properly breathing. He resolves not to think about it as he flops face-first into the mattress beside them – they don’t seem to be worrying about it.

**Author's Note:**

> tbqh I didn't feel as if I had enough of a grip on their characters to be writing this but I couldn't help myself apparently


End file.
